His Last Vow (Johnlock)
by WhoLocked93
Summary: John has only a year left to live. The news leaves Sherlock distraught and broken, but Sherlock makes a vow to make the last year of John's life the best year he's ever had. This is Sherlock's last vow.
1. Chapter 1: The Diagnosis

**Sherlock**

Ilean heavily against the cold chair, my legs not willing to support me any longer. They feel like jam. My stomach tosses and turns horribly, threatening me to retch. A thin layer of sweat coated my entire body. I feel cold down to my core. I'm in complete and utter shock by the news I just had the misfortune to hear.

I can't wrap my brilliant mind around it. Sherlock Holmes, master of his mind and all it contains, but I couldn't break past the wall that formed around the words I just heard.

One year. That was all they were giving my blogger. One year left of John's life and he would be gone. Snuffed from this earth and buried in the ground, never to return.

John sits there completely still. If someone were to peer in from the outside, they would think that I was the one that was dying and John was the strong wall that held me up. I wish that were the case.

I am fascinated by John's ability to keep his compousure. However much John looks compoused by the grave news, I can catch just a glimpse of what was really behind his mask. I can see through everyone's mask, but John had always been particularly difficult. He never ceased to amaze me on what he would do. He always surprised me. I would never let John know that of course; he'd probably laugh at me.

But right now, I stare at my blogger as he sits completely still like a statue. His arms are tightly glued to his side, hands clenched in an unmoving fist. He's in his army stance. It's how John disconnects himself from unpleasant situations. He brings up his army front and won't let anything in, but I can see a little bit of what was going on behind his tough mask. He's scared; terrified that he only had one year left on this earth, but he'd be dammed if he let anyone else see that he was like a frightened child on the inside.

The doctor was still going on about the details, but I wasn't listening anymore. I just looked at John. My blogger, observing every bit of his detail, already committing it to memory. Every now and then I'd pick up words, such as _inoperable, make him comfortable, arrangements... _Much to my regret as whenever these words are spoken I feel a small part of me rip open and die.

My throat tightens to a hair pin width as my body tries to betray how much the news was affecting me. I wouldn't let it however. I will remain strong. No one will see how much this was affecting me, not even John.

You see, John has a rare and fatal brain tumour forming in cerebrum. As time progresses his mind will deteriorate. The tumour is located in a part of the brain that will affect every aspect of his cerebrum. His ability to move, vision, hearing, communication, and memory will all decline slowly over time. His emotions and personality will begin to alter as the tumour grows. He will have massive, debilitating headaches. The doctor has given him medication to help ease him through all of this, but it won't keep John alive.

As I thinks about the painful times that lie ahead of John and I, I hardly noticed the doctor's departure. Thus leaving the dying blogger and distraught detective alone.

"Suppose we should head back to Baker St now." John says, tightly. Breaking the silence.

"Uh... Yeah..." I says quietly, standing up slowly. John begins to put on his coat when I quickly walks over, grabbing ahold of it to help John in. He looks at me confused, but his expression quickly changes to that of sadness and compassion. With a painful ache in my chest an stinging in my eyes, John slides easily into his coat, giving me a quiet ta.

We make our way to the door. Neither of us willing to talk about what's happening. My cold heart begins to break into a million pieces as John's becomes hard and callous.

We step out onto the street and hail a cab, making the quiet journey to Baker St.

I feel myself become ancy, no longer being able to bear the silence I turn to John.

"We need to talk about this." I says, staring at my blogger sadly. Normally I wouldn't be peeved by the silence, I use to revel in it. But now I simply can't sit here and pretend nothing is wrong. I have to talk to John about this, but John is not so willing.

"No, Sherlock. We don't." He responds coldly not looking at me.

"But John..." I begin to plead, but he cuts me off.

"No, Sherlock. We're not talking about this and that's final!" He raises his voice, causing the cabbie to look at us oddly.

I feel all my energy physically leave me and I slump against the seat, defeated. _Why won't John talk to me about this? Why is he shutting me out? It's so unlike him. He's the one that always wants to talk things through, but now that his clock is counting down he refuses to let me in. I just want him to let me in..._

We remain in silence the rest of the way to Baker St. I glance at John to see him just staring out the window, watching the building and people pass by. I turn to look out mine, but I don't watch what we pass. I don't see anything. I stare unseeing outside, willing my emotions, the emotions I have always been a master of, not to betray me. I simply wants to weep, but I won't let myself. Not here. Not now.

As we arrive at Baker St., I practically throw myself out of the cab and run upstairs, leaving John to deal with the cabbie.

He walks up the stairs only to enter an empty flat. He glances to the direction of Sherlock's room and can see the shadow movements of his detective under the door. He sighs sadly and goes to the kitchen to make two cuppas.

I tear into the flat and into my room, closing the door behind me before I collapse.

My emotions take over and I weep in a pile on the ground. I feel like I've been stabbed in the heart. I clutch my chest against the pain and place my other hand firmly over my mouth to quiet my sobs as I hear John make his way up to the flat. He pauses and then begins to make his way to the kitchen, probably for tea.

I continue to sob against my hand, my breathing is rough and laboured as my cries come out as whimpers and gasps. I can't hold myself up in the sitting position any longer and I collapse weakly onto the ground. I curl onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, and burying my head against my knees. I can feel my hot sticky breath against my face and my head is starting to pound with the onset of a cry induced headache. My face feels swollen, but I can't stop the tears from falling. I lie there for a while longer slowly gaining my compousure. I can hear John softly approaching my door.

"Sherlock? I made you a cuppa..." He says, waiting for a response. When their is none, he continues. "Right. I'll... uhh... just set it right outside your door."

I hear the cup being set on the floor followed by John's slow retreat. With the effort of seemingly a thousand men, I picks myself slowly off the floor. I run my fingers gently through my hair and fix my lopsided shirt. I straightens my shoulders and tilt my head high. I wipe the remainder of my tears off my face and opens the door.

I pick up the tea John had left there for me and softens my expression to one of content. I make my way to the sitting room where John is sitting alone, lost in his thoughts. He smiles at my approach, glad to not be left alone. We sit across from each other, talking and watching crap telly. Neither of us bringing up the devastating news we heard just hours prior.

Hours pass and John soon departs to his room. I bid him goodnight and remains in the sitting room.

In that exact moment in time, I make a silent vow to myself that I will make this last year the best year of John's life. I will make John's final year his most memorable. So when it's time to say goodbye, John will have only happy memories to think upon. I will never leave his side, not for one moment, not for one second. I will be with my blogger until his last breath. Forever the Holmes to my Watson. This will be my last vow.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2: Symptom's Emerge

**John**

I wake up to the sound of the train wheels clattering against rails; it's soothing. I lift my head that rested comfortably against Sherlock's coat and rub the sleep from my eyes. With a yawn, I peer at my watch surprised that I've only been out for thirty minutes.

I look over to Sherlock's seat, he's not there. I glance around me, wondering if he's off chatting it up with someone, but I don't see him. I shrug off the weird feeling this gives me and stand just as my stomach decides to demonstrate a whale mating song. I sigh and pull out my wallet from my back left pocket. I've got a fiver; just enough for some crisps and tea. Perhaps Sherlock will be there. He is awfully skinny and pale, with his unruly black curls and beautiful aquamarine eyes. Wait. What. Why did I just think Sherlock's eyes are beautiful? There just eyes, John. Dear god pull yourself together.

I shake my head and make my way to the food trolley, passing the only and currently occupied loo on the train. I reach an elderly woman with kind green eyes tending to the trolley. I get myself crisps and tea, handing the lady a fiver, and wait patiently for my change.

I glance around the room; realising Sherlock is not here either. Something about this concerns me. The train isn't very big and I walked through the entire thing just to get here, so where the hell could he be...

The trolley lady snaps me from my thoughts to hand me my change. I nod my thanks and stuff the change in my pocket.

I make my way to pass the loo again, but I stop. I look at the little green 'occupied' notice on the door. I weird feeling crawls down my spine. I don't know what it is, I guess you would call it intuition. But I have this weird feeling that Sherlock is inside.

I don't want to disturb him, but the weird feeling keeps nagging me that he's not okay.

I raise my hand hesitantly to knock on the door, but I stop. I feel conflicted. Maybe he's feeling a bit ill is all. That happens sometimes. I should just let him be for a bit. If he doesn't come out in another five minutes, I'll check on him. With that final thought I start to turn away until I hear a noise that stops me in my tracks.

Someone is making painful moans on the other side of the door. For a split second, I wonder if something... err uhh... sexual is happening in there, but I quickly toss that thought aside when I hear it again. Someone is in pain and they sound weak. Definitely not sexual.

Before I realise what I'm doing, I drop my tea and crisps and ram the door hard with my shoulder easily breaking it open after one solid hit. I feel pain shoot across my shoulder, but I ignore it. What I see before me makes my heart drop and my stomach turn.

Sherlock is lying on the ground, between states of consciousness. He is so pale and a sheen of sweat coats his face. I manoeuvre my way around Sherlock and crouch down next to him, placing my hands gently on his face. As I get closer to him, I notice his cupid bow lip are slightly blue. I feel panic rising in my chest.

"Sherlock." I say, shaking him gently. "Sherlock. Look at me. What happened?"

He opens his eyes slightly, his pupils are tiny. What the hell happened?

I scoot closer to him and sit down cross legged pulling him onto my lap. He starts to close his eyes again.

"Sherlock. Don't close your eyes. Keep your eyes fixed on me." I say, desperately.

He shutters slightly and I hear a small clattering noise, followed by the sound of glass rolling away. I look towards the noise and see a used syringe. Oh, fuck.

"Sherlock! Look at me!" I say, shaking him harder. "What was in the syringe, Sherlock?! What was in it?!"

He opens his eyes again, they're glassed over and vacant.

"Drugsss..." He says, weakly as his eyes threaten to slip closed again. Oh my god. He overdosed, he fucking overdosed. Shit. Shit. Shit! I feel my heart beat speed up and I feel nauseas.

"No! No, Sherlock! Keep your eyes open." I say desperately as I see a tear splash onto his face. I didn't realise that I'd been crying. I agitatedly wipe away the other tears and start to subconsciously stroke his hair away from his sweaty face.

Sherlock shudders again and his breathing becomes suddenly extremely shallow. Oh god I'm losing him! Overwhelming panic consumes me. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!

"Come on, Sherlock! Talk to me! What drug? What drug did you take?!"

He makes mumbling noises, but I can't distinguish it this time. His eyes close once again and I shake him trying to get him to reopen them, but he won't. He stopped responding and I feel him go limp. I check his pulse afraid that I won't find one. After a moment, a feel a faint pulse and breathe a sigh of relief. I know I don't have much time, I need to get him help.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEONE COLLAPSED! THEY NEED HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP US!

Within seconds someone rushes in, before they enter I grab the drug paraphernalia and stuff it into my pocket. I don't know why I did that. I shouldn't be protecting him, but I feel like I must. So I stuff it into pocket.

A young girl hesitantly peaks in. She has long brown hair pulled back into a high pony tail with kind, brown eyes. She has an oversized sweater on with the face of a cat on it. She looks at me, then to Sherlock. Her eyes widen in as she takes him in.

"Sherlock? What happened to him?" She asks, looking at me with concern.

"I... uhh... don't know. I just found him here..." I trial off not meeting her eyes. I don't know her and I don't want to broadcast to the world that he overdosed. He can get kicked out of school for that. She pauses for a moment before speaking again.

"Did he... did he overdose?" She asks quietly. I look at her surprised before nodding slightly.

"We need to get him help. He's not responding. He still has a pulse, but it's faint." I say, pleadingly. I don't know how much longer he'll last and that thought terrifies me.

"Okay. I'll be right back." She says quickly as she hops up and bolts from the loo.

She comes back less than thirty seconds later with her purse. I look at her stupidly.

"What are you doing?! We need to get him help?!" I say as I try to pick Sherlock up and failing miserably. He's heavier than he looks.

"Stop moving!" She says, sharply. "He's overdosed on heroine. I have the counter drug in my purse. I just need to find it..." She continues, trailing off. How in the bloody hell did she know what he overdosed on? Who the hell is she?

"Found it!" She exclaims pulling out a cylinder shaped object. She opens it up and a syringe falls into her hand. She messes with the dose before grabbing his wrist and plunging the needle into his vein, injecting the unknown drug into his system..

We sit tensely for a couple of minutes, relaxing slightly when Sherlock's breathing becomes slightly more regular and the blue tinge around his lips starts to recede.

I lean heavily against the wall and begin to absently stroke Sherlock's hair. The girl notices, but doesn't say anything.

"What did you give him?" I ask, exhausted.

"Naloxone." She says, showing me the label. "It's a counter drug for heroin overdoses."

"How... Where... Why..." I stutter, unable to finish any of the million questions I have for her. She smiles at me sheepishly.

"My father is a doctor, he deals with a lot of heroin overdoses and this is the drug he uses to counter it. He explained to me how it is used and how to administer it when I asked. Sherlock and I use to go to the same boarding school for the last two years, before he was kicked out for drug use. He overdosed five times in the two years I've known him." She says, looking at him sadly but fondly before continuing. "After the second time, I asked my dad about the drug. He was more than happy to talk to me about his job and I never had to reveal why I wanted to know. Before heading back to school, I swiped a handful of it. He had so many, he didn't even notice some had gone missing. My parents pulled me out of my previous school, just before Sherlock was kicked out. By chance were sent to the same school again and I never got around to taking the drug out of my purse." She finishes with a shrug.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." I say sincerely before adding with a laugh. "And I don't even know your name."

"Molly Hooper." She says extending her hand, chuckling as well.

"John Watson." I respond, grasping her hand within mine and giving it a slight shake.

"Have you known him long?" She asks, gesturing to Sherlock.

"No. No, I haven't. Just met him today on the train. He's my new roommate."

"Oh... Dear... What a greeting."

"You're telling me." I say, apathetically.

We remain in silence for a couple minutes. Sherlock starts to get some of his colour back and the sweat that once coated his face has dried. His lips are only a hint of blue now and he stopped shaking. Dear god what am I getting myself into. Maybe I should request a roommate change...

"He's not a bad guy." Molly says suddenly, interrupting my train of thought. "He's different. That's for sure. But he's not bad. He has his troubles, but he truly is brilliant." She finishes sincerely. Her eyes shining with hope and understanding. It's like she knew what I was thinking. I simply nod to her.

I'm slightly taken aback by her words. I am unable to dwell upon what she's just said due to Sherlock beginning to stir in my grasp that I forgot I had on him.

"Hey." I say, softly. Breathing a small sigh of relief when he opens his eyes and notice his pupils are back to a normal size.

"What happened?" He asks, weakly.

"You overdosed." Molly says softly, causing Sherlock to switch his attention from me to her. He looks surprised to see her.

"Hey, Molly. Saved me yet again, haven't you?" He asks, kindly to her. The sincerity in his tone surprises me.

"Yeah." She says, sheepishly as tears form in her eyes. "You've got to stop this, Sherlock. You're going to kill yourself. You're too brilliant to die young."

At this, Sherlock pushes himself abruptly off of my lap and attempts to stand. He's still weak and he stumbles, almost hitting his head. Molly and I catch him before he does.

"I'm fine.' He says, agitatedly. Giving us a cruel glare. What a cock! We just saved his life!

We slowly let go of him and he leans heavily against the wall, his eyes pinched closed. He stays there for a couple of minutes, Molly and I watching him carefully. He opens his eyes eventually, only to slam them close again and clutch his stomach. He spins around quickly and begins to vomit horribly. I stand back looking upon him with pity, as Molly crouches next to him brushing his hair away from his face. He starts to dry heave and eventually stops completely, slumping against the wall pushing Molly's hand away. Pain flashes across her small face.

"That bloody Naloxone always makes me sick." He says, weakly.

"It's better than dying." I retort. He glares at me before pushing himself up and walking past me, elbowing me in my shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through my arm. I clutch it, doubling over in pain. Molly comes to my side, as Sherlock continues to walk away.

"What happened? He didn't hit you that hard, did he?" She asks, concerned.

"No. I rammed the door open, trying to get to Sherlock. I must have dislocated my shoulder." I say, through gritted teeth. The pain makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"Oh god... John. I'm sorry... I... I don't know how to relocate a shoulder..." She says, sadly. Placing a gentle hand on mine. I look up at her, giving her a weak smile.

"It's alright... I just... Fuck... I just need to keep it still..."

She nods sadly and holds open the door for me to walk through. I walk carefully, trying not to jostle my arm, but it's rather difficult on a bloody moving train.

It's not the first time my shoulder has been dislocated. Sherlock was right, my father's an alcoholic, but what he didn't deduce was that he's abusive when he's drunk. He's slammed me around a couple of times and a couple of times is putting it lightly. It's more like every time he was drunk, unless I hid in my room like a coward.

That's why I was so grateful when I received the letter stating that I was granted a football scholarship to Baskerville Academy. I can finally escape him after all these years of being his personal punching bag. The only thing I regret is leaving my sister and my mum. With me away, he will undoubtedly turn his full attention to them.

I received my scholarship at the last moment. Just enough time to pack and leave. I wasn't able to escape my father however. He gave me a final and brutal beating as a parting gift. Fucking cock.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take my seat. Sherlock sits across from me with his face pressed flat against the table. He looks horrible... Good. He deserves it. Molly sits beside me and together we arrive to Baskerville in complete silence. This is going to be a long year...

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3: Anger

**Sherlock**

I tear out of the flat, slamming the door loudly behind me. My legs are giving out and I push past the people in my way, not caring who I hit.

My heart beats painfully, I feel like I'm dying. I wish I was. I wish I was dying and not John. Not my John.

I stumble over my feet and fall into a wall. I see an alley in the distance and will my legs to move me towards it. I throw myself into the dark, dank alley and let a sob escape me.

My hands hold me up against the wall as I place my forehead against the cool, hard surface as tears stream down my face.

John's face flutters in front of my closed eyes. He looks happy. His smiling face looking back at me, comforting me.

_John_.

The images in my head slowly begin to change. John is now typing up a blog entry, using just two fingers to type. I smile. He never uses all his fingers, it use to agitate me to no bloody end, but now it makes me smile as it is something that makes John who he is and I would never want that to change.

The image waves away and new ones begin to form. John falling asleep on the couch, snoring softly. John trying to force me to eat and failing. John flinging insults back at Donovan after she insults me. John running with me trying to catch a criminal. John giggling at a crime scene. John killing someone to protect me...

John sitting in the doctor's office, emotionless. John refusing to talk to me. John wincing at any form of light. John falling trying to bring me tea. John lying in his bed, dying. John taking his last breath. John closing his eyes for the last time. John being lowered into the ground...

_John. John. John._

I push myself roughly off the wall and begin to pace, anger beginning to build inside of me. I crouch down on the ground, running my hands harshly through my curls, pulling some out. I stand quickly and throw my hands hard against the wall. Tears of anger, sorrow, and devastation pool in buckets down my face.

I slam my fist against the wall. Pain shoots through my hand, but I don't care. I hit it again, harder. Then again and again and again, my hand going numb from pain. I keep hitting it, my hand breaking, but it doesn't stop me. I hit it over and over again harder each time as blood coats my entire hand.

I hear someone approach, but I don't care. I don't care about anyone or anything right now. Only John. All I care about is John.

"Sherlock." A sad, familiar voice says.

I ignore the voice and continue punching the wall. Blood blots the wall from my hand now, but I continue to hit it, beginning to break some of the weakening plaster.

"Sherlock. Please stop. Stop for John." Mycroft says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Why. Should. I?!" I say, punctuating every word with a blow to the wall.

"John will be upset. He doesn't want to see you hurting yourself over him." He says, trying to get through to me. It works as I stop beating abuse to the wall and place my forehead against it in defeat instead.

Mycroft's hand still rests tenderly on my shoulder, as waves of sobs rack my entire body. He waits silently, letting me sob through my pain.

"He's dying, Mycroft. John's dying." I say, brokenly still not looking at him.

"I know, dear brother. I'm so sorry."

I finally turn to look at him. He looks at me tenderly and consumed with worry. Our brotherly war forgotten.

"I don't know what to do." I cry.

"There is nothing you can do." He says, solemnly.

"There has to do _something_. _Anything_." I reply, strained.

He remains silent. For the first time unsure of what to say. Unsure of what to do to comfort his baby brother.

"I wish that were possible, but John's condition is extensive. There is nothing you can do." He says, eventually.

"STOP SAYING THAT!" I shout, rounding on him. "YOU EXPECT ME TO SIT HERE AND WATCH HIM DIE!"

"Yes." He says, simply completely unaffected by my outburst.

"I can't, Mycroft! I can't! I won't be able to live through this! I need John! I need him!" I sob frantically. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Like my mind palace is crumbling down around me.

"I've always told you that caring is not an advantage." He says, coldly.

His words shock me like a bucket of cold water being splashed upon me. I take a step back, stunned as he continues.

"If you didn't care for John Watson you wouldn't be affected by his impending doom." He says leaning against his umbrella.

My vision clouds in rage. It turns everything to shades of red. It's so strong I feel my head is going to explode. The red hot boiling rage consumes me and I snap.

I bring my mangled fist up and swing, punching Mycroft right in his jaw. He stumbles backward, stunned as he touches his cheek.

"Don't you _ever_ say that to me. Don't you ever say that caring for John was a mistake." I say deadly quiet.

Mycroft shifts his jaw around, testing it before wiping a bit of blood away from the corner of his mouth with an 'MH' embroidered handkerchief before speaking.

"I never said it was a mistake. I simply said it was not an advantage." He says, wincing at the pain of moving his jaw.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Mycroft?" I ask, cross.

He pauses, picking his words carefully before speaking. "Caring for John Watson is the best thing that has ever happened to you." He finally says.

My anger leaves me abruptly as the shock of his words break through my mind.

"The love you hold for him is admirable. Something I will regrettably never feel." He says, with surprising tenderness. "You found yourself a goldfish." He finishes with a sad smile.

His words make me weak. The world swims before me in a haze, like a dream.

"I... I don't love him." I say, feebly, stuttering slightly.

His eyes soften more so as he approaches me placing a brotherly hand on my cheek.

"Dear brother, you see but you do not observe." He says, softly. "You've always loved him. It's so painfully obvious that anyone can see it. It shines brighter than the sun."

My eyes pool with newfound tears, his words affecting me as I take in this revelation. He's right. Mycroft's right. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so blind from my own heart?

_Because John doesn't love you back._

New tears form in my eyes at the horrible revelation. John doesn't love me. He never has, he never will.

"He doesn't love me. He never has. That was paramount after my fall. He's been married and divorced with Mary. He's never loved me, nor does he now." I choke, speaking the dreadful thought that has clouded my mind.

"No, brother. You're wrong." He says, almost inaudibly, placing his forehead against mine. "Those two years without you, destroyed him. He drank himself away, lost an alarming amount of weight; he spiralled down into the pits of hell because he was devastated by your loss. You can't honestly believe he doesn't love you?"

"Yes." I say, solemnly, "None of that means he loves me, Myc." I respond, still not believing him. He's eyes flash in surprise by my use of the childhood name I gave him long ago.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're one of the most observant men in the world, but you don't see what's right in front of you." He says with a small smile, lifting his forehead from mine, but keeping his hand on my cheek. "I know you will want proof. He has a second blog, on an anonymous site. He wrote about his love and his loss for you there. He kept writing, even after he married Mary. He kept it up almost the entire time. It was how he coped. He never stopped writing until after you returned. If you don't believe me, look for yourself." He says, sliding a small note into my pocket holding the web address to the site.

I nod, unable to speak as my throat has completely constricted itself making it hard to even breathe.

Mycroft drops his hand from my face and onto my shoulder, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. For once, I appreciate the sentiment. Surprising as I repel from any sort of sentiment from anyone, especially my brother.

"Go to him. He needs you."

"I... I have to get his medicine. His symptoms have already started to emerge." I say, weakly, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Panic flashes across Mycroft's eyes when Sherlock utters about John's symptoms but he quickly rearranges his features as to not alarm his already broken little brother.

"I already have them. Anthea popped by and got them for you whilst we were talking. They're in the car. I figured you would want them around before his symptoms started I emerge, but it seems that it has already happened."

"Thank you." I say, sincerely. I truly am. My brother and I have had a strained relationship as long as I can remember. However, this rare and unique brotherly compassion is comforting, soothing and I don't care that it goes against everything I've built to conceal myself from my own emotions and if others.

Mycroft steps besides me and places his hand on my upper back, guiding me to his sleek, black car.

I step in, feeling its warmth and realising how truly cold I am. I begin to shiver and wrap my coat tighter around me, placing the pharmacy bag on my lap.

Mycroft sits across from me staring out the window deep in thought. Neither of us caring to talk anymore. Nothing more needs to be said.

We reach Baker St shortly and I let myself out, closing the door. As I turn to leave Mycroft rolls down the window causing me to stop and look back at him.

We stare at each other silently. Mycroft having an obvious internal debate with himself about something probably about what we had just discussed minutes prior.

"I need to get these to John." I say, shivering after a couple minutes of silence. He nods staring at me intently not breaking eye contact as he speaks.

"You need to let John know how you feel, Sherlock." He finally says. I gape at him hardly believing what he's telling me to do. I can't tell John how I feel. What if he rejects me and we finish his last year together shrouded in awkward filled tension?

Mycroft rolls his eyes, seeing the panic rage on inside my mind. "Look at the website, Sherlock. Everything you need to know will be there. I promise."

I give him a tight nod and turn on my heel to heed into Baker St. Just as I step through the door, Mycroft's voice drifts to me.

"Your goldfish is dying and doesn't have a lot of time. Please don't waste any of it."

I don't respond as I shut the door behind me, leaning heavily against it. I feel weak, cold, and tired.

I hear John's soft footsteps up above and our flat door open. I glance up to see John standing at the top of the stairs looking at me confused.

"I thought I told you not to move." I finally say.

"I heard the door." He says as if that's reason to get up when I asked him not to. "You okay, Sherlock?"

"Yeah... I'm fine... Just... It's just cold out there." I respond lamely.

"Right. Yeah. It's supposed to start snowing. Best get you up inside and in front of the fire; your face is all red."

I pale. I don't want John to know I'd been crying.

"Oh, yeah. It's bitter cold out." I say, hoping he'll take the bait that my face is red from the cold.

"Definitely so." He says, taking the bait much to my relief.

I peel myself off the door and walk slowly up the stairs. John's face is pale and he looks tired. I place my hand on his lower back and lead him into the flat. A low fire already roaring, casting everything in a warm glow.

"Sit." I order him once again. "I'll make some tea so you can take your medicine."

"I forgot that's what you went out for." He says with feeble amusement.

My face drops noticeably at the news of this, but I rearrange it quickly when John looks up when I remain silent.

We stare at each other for a bit, not saying anything. The conversation with Mycroft floods back to me and an overwhelming urge to tell him that I love him consumes me. I open my mouth to say the three words I thought I'd ever say to anyone, especially John. But I stop myself, fear of rejection and humiliation overcrowding my desire to tell him. I snap my mouth shut with an audible snap and turn to hang my coat and scarf near the door next to John's.

As I turn away, I hear a loud gasp causing me to turn back around. My heart stops as worry that something else is happening to him consumes my thoughts.

As I face him, I see that he's fine, but he's staring at my forgotten mangled hand with disbelief and shock.

"What happened?" He asks quietly, rushing over to me. He lifts my hand tenderly inspecting the extensiveness of my wound.

My head scrambles for a believable excuse, but coming up empty.

"I... uhh... slammed it in the pharmacy door..." I say feebly grasping the first thing that pops into my mind.

John looks up at me, squinting his eyes trying to decide whether to believe me. He looks like he's about to say something about it not looking like a door slam injury, but stops as his face drops sadly and his gaze flicks down to my bloody hand.

"It's definitely broken." He finally says. "We should take you to the hospital to get it fixed."

"No!" I shout, causing him to jump and drop my hand. It hits my side causing pain to shoot up my arm. The last bit of adrenaline I had whilst beating the wall now gone as my hand starts to throb painfully.

"Alright. Alright. No hospital." John says looking at me with concern. "Come over near the fireplace, so I can get a better look at it."

I nod and let John lead me still holding my hand.

His touch makes my heart swim and my stomach flutter. The beat of my heart so loud I'm pretty sure John can hear it. I try to calm myself, not wanting to alert John to my newfound feelings for him.

"Sit." He says, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of the fireplace. Seems a bit childish to me to sit on the floor, but I oblige giving him a smirk which he rolls his eye at in response to. "I'm going to go get my medical bag. We need to take care of your hand as soon as possible before permanent injury sets in."

I nod, watching him depart. My eyes trailing after him. I notice that he's walking slightly different. He moves slower, shuffling a bit more than usual. Most people wouldn't see the difference; it's so minute. But I can. I can see the smallest change in John that John himself won't see. This ability to observe and deduce is my greatest achievement.

But as I see every small change that John has gone through already and will go through, I only think of it as a curse. A curse I wish I could rid myself of. I want to shut it off, never to let it flick back on again. I don't want to see everything that John will go through that others will miss. I don't think I can live through it. It's going to destroy me in the end.

A single tear drips down my face as I stare into the fire, consumed with a single thought.

I wish I was ordinary

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4: Fed Up

**John**

_I could shoot him. I could bloody shoot Sherlock for messing up his hand like that. What was he thinking! What did he even do to it since it's obvious that he was lying to me about slamming it in the door. Does he think I'm stupid enough to believe that! Hah! He's got to be bloody daft to think I would!_

I rummage through my room looking for my medical bag and coming up empty.

_Where in the bloody hell is my medical bag. I normally stick it right here near my desk, don't I? But it's not there. What the hell! Where did it go! I bet Sherlock moved it again. That bastard._

I exit my room and shuffle down the stairs. Sherlock is still sitting next to the fireplace, staring at the flames licking and crackling against the air.

"Sherlock, did you move my medical bag?" I ask and he turns towards me, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"No. It's underneath the bathroom sink where it always is. Is it not there anymore?" He says, tentatively.

_Oh, underneath the sink. How could I have forgotten?_

"No, I haven't checked there yet. Be back in a tic." I say, turning in my heel and heading to the bathroom.

I open the cabinet doors and low and behold my medical bag sits. I pull out the massive bag and leave the bathroom. I walk over to Sherlock and place the bag on the side of us as I sit cross legged in front of Sherlock.

I take his broken hand gently within mine and begin to examine it, mentally taking notes on what I see.

_All four fingers broken. Wrist is compacted due to blunt force trauma. Small scratches cover his fingers accompanied by a few deep gashes hence all the blood. Thumb remains unbroken, minus a few shallow scratches on the surface. Purple, black bruises along the fingers, hand, and wrist as well as some significant swelling. Possible tendon damage that may cause problems in the future. Trauma caused by repeatedly beating something hard with an immense amount of force._

_What the hell did he do to himself?_

"The damage is extensive. It may cause permanent damage if it's not taken care of properly. We should really get you to-"

"I know you'll take care of it properly, John. I trust my doctor." He says, cutting me off and giving me that adorable half smile.

"Alright then." I say quietly, trying not to swoon like a girl.

I open my bag and begin to take out the needed supplies. I grab the alcohol first to clean off the blood and sterilise the cuts. It'll also help me see if any of the deep gashes need to be stitched.

I drench a cotton pad in alcohol and glance up to see Sherlock looking at me warily like I'm the plague or something.

"Christ, Sherlock. It's just alcohol." I laugh. "I've got to get it disinfected."

He pulls his lips down into a pout. "But it hurts, John." He whines. I chuckle at my pouty childish detective and shake my head.

"I know it does. That's because it's dirty and infected. You wouldn't want it to get all yucky now, would you?" I say slowly like I'm speaking to a child.

Sherlock makes a little 'humph' noise, proving my point that he is indeed a child. It makes me smile.

I bring the cloth to Sherlock's hand and press down softly. He jolts a bit in pain, but keeps his hand still. I begin to dab away at his hand carefully, trying not to hurt it. The dabbing has only taken me so far and I start to wipe at the deeper cuts. Sherlock cringes and twerks at the burning, stinging sensation. After a couple of painfully long minutes of Sherlock cursing under his breathe and me warning him to stop wriggling around we get all his wounds clean.

Some of the gashes are deep, but they've stopped bleeding for the most part.

"I don't think you'll be needing stitches." I say, probing one of the cuts with my gloved finger. I see a bit of something beneath the surface and pull out my tweezers to get at it.

I grasp onto its white corner and pull out a small piece of something. I bring it closer to my face examining it.

_Is that plaster?_

I glance up at Sherlock, who is purposely avoiding my eyes.

"Most have come from the door." He says, indifferent with a shrug, still not looking at me.

"Sherlock." I warn him.

_I swear to god he better not bloody lie to me again. I will fucking go off. I fucking will._

"What?" He says with forced confusion, finally looking at me with wide innocent eyes.

I feel my anger boil further within me. I take a hard, deep breathe whilst pinching the bridge of my nose. I clench and unclench my jaw and exhale loudly dropping my hand from my face, burning my blue eyes into his.

"Don't bloody lie to me, Sherlock." I finally say through gritted teeth.

Sherlock's face morphs, becoming completely unreadable and passive.

_It's the face I hate with a burning passion. It's the face he gives everyone he deems beneath him. So what am I then? Someone he deems below himself now. I'm his bloody best friend, for Christ sake! Why does he treat me this way!_

"I'm not-" He responds, coldly. His face hard and cold, but I cut him off. The anger I tried holding inside exploding.

"No! Fuck you, Sherlock! Fuck you!" I shout at him, standing up. "All I bloody asked you to do is _not_ lie to me! That's all I fucking asked! And you know what you do?! LIE! TO! ME! I deserve bloody better than that, Sherlock! I fucking deserve better! But noooo! Not to Sherlock Fucking Holmes! To you I don't mean shit! To you, you lie to my face when I do absolutely fucking everything for you!" I continue, kicking my medical bag across the room causing the contents to fly everywhere and break glass somewhere in the flat, but I don't care.

"Jo-" He tries to interject quietly, but I'm not having it.

"No! Shut the fuck up! I don't want to hear another fucking word you say! Fix your own god damn hand! I'm done with you, you fucking useless piece of shit machine!" With that I storm out of the flat, kicking the chair that was in my way down. I stomp down the stairs and slam the door so hard the windows rattle.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5: At Last

**Sherlock**

I sit stunned in front of the fire. The remnants of John's anger surrounding me.

_This is all my fault. I should go after him, I want to go after him, but I don't think John wants me to go after him. I don't want what just happened to repeat again. I don't think I can handle it. I might break._

I glance around the room then hang my head and sigh. John's angry outburst destroyed the flat pretty bad.

His medical supplies went everywhere; one even broke his mum's vase. It was the only thing he had left of her and now it's broken.

A small tear falls down my face and onto my mangled hand. I wipe it away, not wanting to start blubbering again and straighten my spine, finally standing up.

I begin to clean the flat. I put all of John's medical supplies back in his bag in the same order he always puts them in. I pick up the pieces of the vase, placing them back on the table; the pieces are large, repairable.

I grab my mobile and dial the number to a vase shop down the street. I know a guy there that can repair delicate vases. He owes me a favour for getting him out of a life sentence from a murder he didn't commit.

"Hello, Angelo. It's Sherlock." I say with suppressed agitation, as it took him three bloody long rings to answer.

"Sherlock! How are you my good friend!?" He says enthusiastically through his thick Italian accent.

"Bit not good. I need a favour. My flatmates vase broke whilst he was out and I need it fixed before he comes home. Will you be able to do that?" I say, quickly and getting straight to the point.

"Sure! No problem!" He responds, happily. "When will he be coming home?"

I calculate the time John usually takes to come home after we had a row.

"Three hours." I finally say. The other side of the line remains silent.

"That's rushing it a bit, Sherlock. Perhaps-"

"No, I can't replace it. It's my fault it's broken. I know you can do it, Angelo." I say with an eye roll. I hate stroking people's ego.

"Well. Alright. I'll send my boy down to pick it up. I'll have it done in no time!"

"Thank you, Angelo. How much?" I respond, relieved.

"No cost! It's on the house for my good friend!"

"Thank you again, Angelo." I say and hang up.

I just finish fixing up the flat when I hear a knock at the door.

I grab the box I put the broken vase in and carry it awkwardly down the stairs since I am only able to use one hand. I hand the box to Angelo's boy with a warning in regards to his klepto tendencies. He scampers off as I smirk. He definitely won't be stealing this expensive vase or any others to come to sell for drug money.

I climb the flat and grab John's medical bag. I take out all the supplies that John had taken out earlier and begin to wrap my hand. Or at least I attempt to.

It takes me an hour and a half to wrap my hand and it still looks like a blind person did it. I don't understand how John does it so easily. I give up on trying to make it look halfway decent and put away the rest of the supplies and place the bag underneath the sink again.

I sit in my chair and place my hands in the prayer position under my chin. I jump in pain when my bad hand resists being put in that position. I sigh agitatedly and reposition myself so I can enter into my mind palace. Ten minutes and twenty different positions later, I finally find a position comfortable enough. It's lying on my back, on the floor with my feet on the couch. I probably look ridiculous, but I don't care.

I close my eyes and step into my mind palace.

_Some unknown time later._

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson high pitched voice squeals, dragging me out of my mind palace.

"What?!" I ask agitatedly.

_I hate being jolted from my mind palace like that. It's... disorientating._

"I found this in front of the door as I was leaving to go to dinner with Mrs White next door."

"What!" I bellow, trying to find a clock but coming up empty.

_How long have I been in my mind palace?! It only felt like a couple minutes! It was only ten this morning when I stepped in!_

"What time is it?! Where's John?!" I shout, causing Mrs Hudson to jump at my sudden outburst.

"It's six in the evening and I don't know. Probably up in his room as his coat is still hanging up near the door." She responds, eyeing me with concern. "Is everything alright, Sherlock?"

"Fuck!" I shout and jump up, ignoring her question and bound up to John's room.

I tear the door open and find his room completely empty. It hasn't been touched since he woke up this morning.

_Shit!_

I tear down the stairs and observe the flat for any signs of John being here.

_He hasn't been home. He hasn't been home since he left this morning. That's was... eight hours ago!_

I run my hand through my raven curls in panic.

_I need to find John. I need to find John. Where would he go? What if something happened to him? What if someone took him? No, Sherlock! Stop that! Stop thinking that way!_

I bound over to the door and grab my coat and scarf, putting them both on hastily and practically glide down the stairs and out the door, ignoring Mrs Hudson's shouts of concerns.

I skid onto the pavement and circle around in place trying to deduce where John would go. I enter my mind palace quickly.

_Left: _  
_Shops_  
_Cafés_  
_Hospital_  
_Offices_  
_Take out_

_No! No! No!_

_Right: _  
_Scotland Yard_  
_More cafes_  
_Pharmacy_  
_Park_

_Park! Park! Park! He's at the park!_

My eye snap open and I turn right, running to the park not too far from Baker St. I don't bother with a cab, I just keep running and running as fast as my long legs will take me. I almost knock over an elderly couple in the process, which I was rewarded with by a few disgusted glares by onlookers when I didn't stop.

I reach the park in six minutes and twenty-two seconds, scanning the park as I enter.

I see parents with children bundled up tight against the cold London air playing, elderly couples taking a stroll, young lovers sitting underneath a tree, but no John.

I start to hyperventilate in panic and begin to pull out my mobile to call Lestrade, Mycroft, the British Army, and whoever else I can recruit to start a massive search and rescue for John. I begin dialing Mycroft's number when I see a familiar tossle of blonde hair on the other side of a park sitting on a bench.

I sigh in relief and run over to where John sits alone. I slow my steps as I get closer.

John sits with his head hung low and his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He shivers violently as he didn't grab his coat when he stormed out earlier today. His hair is tousled making him look like an adorable little hedgehog.

I quietly take of my coat and scarf and step closer to John who still hasn't noticed my presence.

I drape my coat over his shoulders causing him to jump. He takes one look at me and leaps off the bench, flinging himself into my arms with a heart wrenching sob.

I stroke his hair softly and wrap my arms tightly around my blogger as his warm tears seep into my shirt.

John cries into my arms for seemingly forever, but I don't mind. I'm just glad he's okay.

After a while, John lifts his head from my chest and peers up into my eyes. His face is puffy and red. The whites of his eyes bloodshot, making his blue eyes appear bluer. His lip quivers sadly as he takes a hard gulp.

"I'm s-so sorry, Sh-Sherlock." John stutters, his eyes pooling with more tears.

"No, don't be. It's my fault. I shouldn't have lied to you. I'm sorry." I respond, sadly.

"I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. It's just... it's just... hard"

"I know. I know." I respond softly, bringing his head back to my chest whilst I unconsciously sway softly from side to side.

"I'm dying, Sherlock." John says, brokenly after a couple of minutes. The reality of what's happening to him finally hitting home. I feel my throat constricts painfully on itself and I feel tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision.

"I know." I respond just as brokenly.

I begin to sob softly, my tear falling freely down my face. John tightens his hold on me, not saying anything whilst rubbing soft patterns along my back.

My sobs quiet after a couple of minutes and I lift my head that was leaning against John's and place my forehead against his staring into my dying blogger's eyes.

"Let's get you home before we both get sick, yeah?" I say after a moment of silence, noticing John's lips are slightly blue and he's still shivering. I'm cold as well, but I rather have John warm over myself.

"Yeah. Let's go." He smiles.

We reluctantly break away from each other and I wrap my arms around myself trying to shield myself from the harsh, cold wind.

"Hold on." John says, stepping closer to me. He rearranges my coat he's wearing and drapes it over myself as well. We mould against each other tightly; the coat easily covering us in its warmth.

"Ta." I say softly, inhaling John's scent on my coat.

We walk in silence back to Baker St with our arms wrapped around each other's waist. We reach the familiar black door with its brass letters after not too long. We step inside the flat where the warm air engulfs us and trudge up the stairs together and enter our flat. I reluctantly let go of John's waist and slip out of the coat. I instantly miss John's warmth and presence. I turn to help John out and hang the coat.

"Tea?" I ask as John looks at me funny. It's like he's seeing me for the first time. I ponder at the expression, but brush it off to him being surprised that I am the one making the tea for once.

"Yes, please." He finally responds and I turn and begin to walk away. "Sherlock, wait!" John almost shouts all of a sudden. I'm halfway into the kitchen by now and I turn to face my blogger in confusion.

John rushes towards me with a look of sheer determination and... hope?

He stops right in front of me; no more than a couple millimetres away. My breathing speeds up and my palms begin to sweat. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's cutting off the blood to my head, making everything tingle.

"One more thing." He whispers and closes his eyes, leaning in. I freeze before I begin to lean in as well...

"Yoo-hoo, boys!" Mrs Hudson says as she knock softy on the door. John and I spring apart and turn away from each other, blushing. "I see you've found John, Sherlock. You gave him quite a fright, you know that. Quite a fright." She says turning to John. "Anywho I hope I didn't disturb anything." She continues giving us a knowing smirk as I try my best not to snark off to her. "I forgot my mobile on the table and I heard you boys up here and thought I'd pop by to see how John is after being outside in that nasty cold with no jacket no less! You'll be lucky if you don't catch a cold!" She reprimands him. I try my best not to stomp around the flat in exasperation of her endless babble.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. I promise." John says, sounding equally exasperated.

"You better be! I'm not going to be cleaning your flat if you get sick! I'm not your housekeeper." She says, completely oblivious to the awkward tension blooming in between John and me.

"Yes, we are aware." John says hanging his head in defeat as I sigh accidentally out loud in exasperation.

"Oops, sorry! Didn't mean to disturb anything! I'll just leave you boys to it!" She says finally understanding that she came at a bad time.

When she finally leaves, I glance up at John and see him fiddling awkwardly with a loose piece of string on his shirt. The confidence he once had just minutes prior gone.

I sigh quietly and turn to the kitchen to make our tea. I start the process in silence, lost in the chaos that begun when John started to lean in to kiss me.

_Was he going to kiss me? How do I know for sure? Of course all the signs were there. Dilated pupils, elevated pulse, breathing pattern change. But what if I'm wrong? I couldn't live with the rejection and humiliation if I misconstrued his true intent._

_But what if it was? What if John was going to kiss me? What if that was our only chance. Our one and only chance to put everything out on the table. He doesn't have much time anymore._

Reality surges back to me as I remember the paper with the web address to John's anonymous blog that Mycroft gave me earlier today. I pull it out of my packet along with my mobile and tap the address in.

The page loads bringing me to a colourful website with seemingly hundreds of thousands of other anonymous writers registered. The page is defaulted to John's and I click on the first entry dated one month her after my 'fall'.

**(AN: I don't remember when Sherlock's fall took place. So I'm just pulling random dates out. Feel free to correct me!)**

_13th of March, 2012_

_I don't know what I'm doing here. But I feel like I have nowhere else to go. I need to get everything out before I explode and my therapist thinks the best way to move on is to write about him. My best friend. He's dead._

_He committed suicide because he couldn't deal with the lies he had created being exposed. But you see, I didn't think they were lies, I still don't. I still believe in everything he said, did, and stood for; even when the man himself told me not to. I just can't do that. I will always believe in him no matter what._

_I visited his grave today. I haven't been there since the day of his funeral exactly two months ago today. I didn't say anything; I just sat there staring at the stone. What's wrong with me? I should just talk, but it seems a bit foolish. I don't know._

_I've decided to visit his grave every Friday from now on. More if need be, but it's a ritual I want to keep. He deserves it._

_-MF_

_MF? Clearly an alias. Curious on what it would be? Max Freely? Mathew Frost? Martin Freeman? Michael Fringe? It could be anything really._

_28th of June 2012_

_It's been a while, but then again I haven't had much to say._

_I've been visiting his grave every Friday, since the day I made the commitment I would. I started talking to him a couple weeks back; it took me a while to start to. I decided to tell him everything I wanted to say when he was still alive and that I miss him, of course. I miss his witty banter and crazed experiments. I miss just him; his voice, his presence, his comfort, everything. _

_Everyone thinks he's the most self centred, rude, all-round obnoxious arsehole they've every had the misfortune to meet. But to me, he is the most beautiful, brilliant, genuine, caring person I have ever met and I love him. I love him with everything inside of me. I always have and always will, but he never felt the same about me and now it's too late. I will forever regret never building up the courage to tell him how I feel. He's gone now, but at least I can go to his grave every Friday and talk to him about everything I wanted to say, but didn't. It's the only thing I have now._

_-MF_

I scroll past the many other entries he's created whilst my body thrums intensely at the words I'm reading. I go to the last blog entry, created two weeks after I returned to him. I click it and wait nervously for it to load.

_14rd of January, 2014_

_He's alive. He's bloody alive. I can't believe it. I don't even know how he did it. He faked his death. He said it was to protect me, but Christ really? He could've told me! I'm his bloody best friend! Or at least I was until all this happened. I don't know if I still am anymore..._

_He's been staying with his brother sorting out the details of his return. Once he's done, he shall be moving back in and we will be flatmates once again. I don't know how I feel about that yet. _

_Don't get me wrong, I still love him so very much even through my marriage and divorce that happened all in the span that he's been 'dead'. The feelings I have for him has never flickered out in the long two years he was away. I just don't know if I have the courage to tell him. It was easy telling him at his, now fake grave, but in person I don't know if I'll be able to. I feel queasy just thinking about it. Perhaps in time. We do have the rest of our lives ahead of us. I have plenty of time to tell him._

_Well I'm going to get off now. All this typing has given me a headache lately. The next couple of weeks shall be interesting, hopefully good interesting._

_-MF_

I remain stunned, leaning against the counter. A part of me still remains sceptical. This blog could be anyone's, but why would Mycroft provide me a fake blog and possible destroy everything for the last year that John has. We may not get along, but Mycroft would never do that. I want to make sure though.

I do a bit of hacking of John's supposed page on my mobile, breaking past all the security barriers, until I get to the raw code that is weaved into the website. It'll show me the coordinates to the person who wrote this.

I scroll past all the codes I don't need till I land on what I'm looking for; the coordinates.

51°31'25"N -0°9'30"E

It's our coordinates. The coordinates that would direct you right to Baker St. It's John. It's his blog. Written here in this flat.

_He loves me. I can't believe it. Out of all the people John could have fallen in love with. He fell in love with me. How could anyone love me?_

The kettle starts hissing loudly bringing me back to earth. I set it on the counter and leave the kitchen in a hurried flourish.

John is sitting in his chair looking at the dying flame in the fireplace, completely engrossed in his thoughts; he looks sad. Upon my approach John looks up at me confused.

"Did you forget how to make tea?" He jokes feebly.

"No."I whisper deeply, crouching in front of John. My heart pounds in my chest making me feel weak and strong at the same time. I swallow the last bit of my fear of rejection and look into my blogger's beautiful, blue eyes. "I forgot you."

I lean in and press my lips to John's. He freezes, not responding to what I'm doing. I panic as my heart sinks down to the floor.

_This was a mistake._

I pull away, looking down unable to meet John's eyes.

"I'm sor-" I begin to say, but my words are cut off by John grabbing the back of my head, pulling my face to his. Our lips crash together and my world explodes into a beautiful array of colour.

Our lips move against each other in beautiful, sweet bliss. It's gentle, sweet, and unobtrusive as we use only our lips, but urgent and desperate all the same. Every feeling we have felt for each other after all this time pouring out in this one, single, beautiful act. All our love, sorrow, and pain being conveyed to each other through our kiss. John's diagnosis has been briefly forgotten as we go on, not breaking our lips apart.

John has slowly slide off his chair and onto his knees in front of me, pressing our bodies against each other. My good hand cradles his cheek as the other wraps around his waist, never wanting to let go. John has his hands wrapped tightly on my lower waist, his fingers digging in slightly.

We finally break apart after a couple of minutes of intense, love filled kissing. We rest our foreheads against each other, looking deeply into each other's eyes.

"I thought this would never happen." John whispers.

"Me, too. I'm glad it did." I whisper back. John presses a soft, delicate kiss to my lips causing my stomach to flutter and fill with warmth.

"I'm going to need to heat up the kettle again. The water will be disgustingly cold by now. Bit not good for tea."

"Yeah. A bit not good." John smiles at me whilst both of us remain where we are, not wanting to move even though we know we should. "Alright. Let's get up now."John says after a couple more minutes pass.

"But Jawn! I don't want to!" I whine causing John to laugh.

"Yes, but we need to. Up you go." He says standing and giving me his hand to pull me up. "It also got terribly uncomfortable on the floor."

"True."I say, still pouting slightly over having to move.

John pulls me into his arms, wrapping me into a tight hug and burrowing his head in the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around his neck and lay my head on top of his, inhaling his scent. It smells musky and woodsy. A little bit damp from the rain with a hint of his shampoo and a smell I can only describe as _John_.

"Time for tea?" I ask.

"Yes, please." John says as he pulls away. "I'm going to take a shower to warm up a bit and get out of these clothes.

"Of course." I smile at him. "Shout if you need anything."

John's eyebrow shoots up disappearing into his hairline as a small smirk spreads across his face.

"Oh! No! I-I didn't mean that. Oh, god! Of course we wouldn't do that! Unless you wanted to of course! I-I didn't mean to say that! Oh god, I'm just going to shut up now." I splutter, feeling my face flush red as I place my hands over my face in sheer humiliation.

_Damn mouth diarrehea._

"Sherlock, love?" John says, his voice smiling in amusement. My heart skipped a beat when he called me _love_. "It's okay, I know what you meant. Don't fret, even though it was quite adorable. Like a babbling otter."

"A babbling otter?" I gawk, dropping my hands from my still red face. "I am not an otter!" I say, incredulously.

"Yeah, you are."

"Am not."

"Are to."

"If I'm an otter, then you're a hedgehog." I say, smirking as his face changes to amused disbelief. "Look at all that spiky hair!" I say running my fingers across it spiking it up even more.

"Stop that! It's only doing that because it's wet and you keep messing with it!" He says, trying to straighten his hair down and failing.

"Yes, you are my cute little hedgy!" I say podging him on the cheek.

John gives an indignant huff and crosses his arms. I wrap my arms around him and give him a soft squeeze, chuckling softly.

"Go hop in the shower, love. Your tea will be ready when you get out."

"Ta." He says, giving me a soft kiss on the lips. I'll never get tired of kissing him.

I walk into the kitchen and start making our tea again. I make John's just the way he likes it and bring our two steaming cuppas to the living room, setting John's next to his chair as I take mine to my chair and begin drinking it slowly.

Time passes and I finish my tea whilst John is still in the shower. I try to force down the worry that has begun to bubble inside of me. He normally doesn't take this long. He was out in the cold for quite some time. He's just trying to get warm.

A couple more minutes pass and I am unable to push past the worry and decide to check on him. I reach the loo and knock on it hesitantly. Nothing. Maybe he didn't hear me. I knock harder. Nothing. I begin to hyperventilate in panic.

"John?" I half shout, knocking. Nothing. "JOHN!"Nothing.

_Oh god. What if something happened to him? Oh god. Oh god._

Without a second thought, I ram the door open, breaking the lock off the hinge in the process. I tear open the curtain to see John lying unconscious as the now lukewarm water falls on him. I jump into the shower, crouching down in front of him ruining my suit.

"John! John!" I shout, panicking as tears stream down my face as I shake him trying to get him to open his eyes. "John! Wake up!"

John's eyes flutter open weakly and I cry out in relief.

"What happened?" He mumbles, looking around in confusion.

"You blacked out." I say, still crying.

"Oh." He says, surprised.

I turn off the tap and grab a towel off the rack draping it around his waist to give him a bit of decency. I pull John up, further wrapping the towel around his waist. He wobbles a bit, still feeling disorientated as we step out. I grab the other towel and begin drying him off as John slowly gains his balance.

"You need to take your medicine. It'll help with all of... this." I say sadly, after I have dried him off.

"I know." He says quietly, looking up at me with tear filled eyes. "Why is this happening? Why now?"

"I don't know, love. I don't know." I respond, letting my silent tears drift down my face as I hold my blogger close.

We remain wrapped around each other tightly, neither of us willing to let go nor wanting to.

My tears continue to fall as I'm unable to stop them from coming. My body shakes softly against John's as I kiss the top of his head over and over again.

My world feels like it's being ripped apart into a thousand pieces. My blogger is dying. He's going to leave me so soon after I have returned. The precious love we share only to be cherished for a limited time. We finally brought up the courage to show each other how we feel and it will soon be gone. The only person I love and will ever love will be ripped from my grasps. My heart crumbles into a million pieces as I feel myself dying all over again.

John. My John. My blogger. The man I love dearly. The one person that made me a better person. The most beautiful man in the world. He's mine. He will always be mine. Even after he's gone. I'll make this time of his worth living. Even if it destroys me, because he deserves it. He deserves the world and beyond and that's what I'm going to give him. Because I love him.

"I love you." I whisper against his head.

"I love you, too." John responds without missing a beat, making my heart swells as I sob harder, kissing his forehead.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6: A Case

**John**

"John!" Sherlock shouts from the living room as I rummage through the kitchen looking for something to eat for breakfast. "John!"

"Yes?" I shout back as I peer around the corner to look at Sherlock.

"Have you taken your medicine yet?" He asks with a concerned look on his face.

I sigh with a smile and approach him where he sits in his chair with his laptop, plucking away at the keys.

"Not yet." I say bending down and kissing the top of his head. It makes me feel warm inside when Sherlock tries to care for me. As I kiss him, he stops what he's doing and looks up at me giving me his full attention. "It's best to take them after I've eaten. You remember what happened last time?"

Sherlock's eyes widen and he shudders as he remembers the horrible side effect of taking one of my pills without food. Basically, it had to do with me praying to the God of Toilets for an entire day. I've never thrown up so much in my life.

"Yeah. It was a bit not good and I'd rather not have a repeat of that." I continue.

"Neither do I." He says taking my hand within his and kissing it softly. "I hate seeing you sick." He continues looking at me sadly.

"Thank you for taking care of me." I smile.

"Always." He smiles back.

We continue smiling at each other like a couple of love struck teenagers for a while longer before my stomach breaks the silence by demonstrating a whale mating song. Sherlock's eyebrow shoots up and disappears into his hair as he smirks at me.

"Well. I think that's my queue to continue making breakfast." I chuckle. "What would you like to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

I suppress a sigh. "Sherlock, you haven't eaten in three days."

"See it's only been three days. I'm good for a while longer and you know eating slows me down."

"Please, Sherlock." I say, almost begging. "For me?" I hate when he goes so long without eating. It worries me to no end. I always feel better after I know he's got a little food in his belly.

Sherlock remains silent for a couple of moments before sighing.

"Fine. I'll eat some eggs and a bit of toast."

"That's my boy." I say giving him a full smile and kissing his forehead. He rolls his eyes at me, but smiles back.

I go back into the kitchen and begin making eggs and toast as Sherlock resumes his work on his laptop.

It's been about two weeks since I started taking my medicine. The first week was a bit rocky as the medicine had to build in my system before it started to take effect. I had more dizzy spells and I blacked out a couple of times during the week it took to build up, but Sherlock was always there. He was always there to catch me when I fell and to wake up to after I've blacked out. He hasn't left my side since the diagnosis. I've never seen this side of him before. It's a beautiful wonderful side of him that make me feel honoured that I am the only one to see it. He's such an amazing, loving man and no one could tell me otherwise.

But on the other hand, I know he's bored. He's been turning down case after case without even knowing what they are. He twitches and fiddles anxiously all day. He tries to occupy his time tending to me, playing the violin, or shouting profanities at the telly and whilst I love the doting version of Sherlock, I miss the old crazed man that I fell in love with and I know Sherlock misses that side of him, too. That's why I've contacted Lestrade for the past couple of days looking for a case. He's come up empty, but I had a text from him when I woke up this morning with a case for us involving the murder of three young women. The murderer left no trace whatsoever. It sounded at least a seven so I had Lestrade send the file over for Sherlock.

I finish making breakfast, adding a bit more eggs on Sherlock's plate and grab the envelope containing the case.

I place the envelope on the table and Sherlock's plate on top of it. Sherlock approaches the table and stops, staring at the plate before lifting it up and taking the envelope. He stares at it, probably deducing its content.

"What's this?" He asks quietly.

"It's an envelope."

"Obviously, John." He says, giving me his 'no shit' look that I try not to roll my eyes at. "What is inside?"

"Why don't you just open it and find out for yourself."

He looks at me piercingly like he's trying to convey words to me with just a look. I drop my slight agitation I had with him and really look at him. He looks scared. His hands are clenching the envelope tightly, making his knuckles white and a fine tremor coats his enter body. He probably thinks that the envelope is about me. My heart plummets at the pain he is probably going through right now.

_Oh, Sherlock._

I reach across the table and wrap my hands around his clenched fist, rubbing my thumb back and forth trying to ease his tension. I can feel him relax slightly, but his expression still remains pained.

"I'm okay, Sherlock." I say squeezing slightly. He sighs out in relief. "It's a case Lestrade dropped by this morning. Triple murder. All young women no older than twenty. The murderer left no trace whatsoever. Lestrade has been going mad for days with this case. He needs your help."

He looks at the envelope before bringing his gaze back to me.

"You got me a case?" He asks quietly.

"Of course." I smile.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve one and everyone is going to start to think something is wrong with one of us if we don't keep up with our usual."

"But something is wrong with one of us. You aren't well... What if something happens?" He responds sadly, his eyes pulling down at the sides.

"I'm okay, Sherlock. Promise. I haven't had any symptoms in almost a week. We can't stay cooped up in the flat forever. We'll let people know of my condition later. No one else needs to know about it right now except us."

"But I want you to come with me though. I don't want to take the case without you. I can't think properly without you close by." He whispers, looking down.

"Of course I'll be there. I'll wear sunglasses outside so the sun won't hurt my eyes. All will be good, love." I respond comforting, giving him a small smile. He smiles back nudging my knee with his.

"Thank you, John." He says whilst standing and walking over to me. He bends down giving me a soft kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes against the kiss, just wanting to feel Sherlock's lips against my skin. He pulls away and places his hand under my chin lifting my head up. I peer up into his beautiful and infinite aquamarine eyes as Sherlock bends down to press his lips against mine. His kisses are soft and inviting, gently cradling mine. I can become lost in his kisses. I can stay here and feel infinitely alive when he kisses me.

Our kiss is brief, but passionate and filled with love. He always leaves me feeling dazed and confused and pleasantly fuzzy. I hum in content as Sherlock sits back in his chair, picking up his fork with a huge grin on his face.

I smile at my detective as I pick my own fork and stab a bit of eggs with it and fork it into my mouth. Sherlock does the same and begins shovelling it down quickly. His excitement about the case evident in his eagerness to quickly eat.

I chuckle. "Slow down, love or you're going to choke."

"I'm fine." He mumbles around a mouthful of toast and eggs. "I want to get to-" Sherlock stops suddenly and begins to cough violently. I spring out of my chair and start patting him hard on the back. He spats out a chunk of egg that flies across the table.

"Ew." He says scrunching up his nose in disgust.

"Told you so." I say smugly, crossing my arms and giving him a superior smirk.

"Piss off." He snarks at me. I roll my eyes and he winks back causing both of us to smile. "You know, if you didn't purposely give me more eggs, I wouldn't have been in such a hurry to eat them all." He continues, picking up the spat out egg with a napkin and tossing it in the bin.

"Don't blame me for your choking fiasco! You're the one who didn't chew your food properly!"

"Still your fault." He mumbles under his breath, but I hear him.

"Oi!" I say amused and Sherlock just chuckles and starts eating again, but at a much slower pace.

We finish our breakfast in silence and we put our plates in the sink.

Sherlock grabs my medicine from the cabinet and sets it in front of me with a fresh cuppa and departs to his room eager to get ready as I take my meds and wash the dishes.

As I finish the dishes, Sherlock comes out with his hair coiffed perfectly and wearing a pair of tight black trousers and a purple button up shirt that I love so much. I've nicknamed it The Purple Shirt of Sex, because of, well, reasons.

Sherlock catches me ogling him and begins to turn around in place slowly giving me more to look at.

"You like what you see?" He asks, his deep voice becoming deeper as he faces towards me again.

"When do I not. You're bloody gorgeous."

"So are you." He says approaching me and placing a soft kiss to my lips.

I revel in his kiss and zone all my senses to Sherlock. From the way he sneaks his hands under my shirt to feel the bare skin of my still muscular torso to the way he presses his body against mine, making every inch of our bodies touch each other.

I rub my hands up and down Sherlock's back through his sex shirt. I glide my tongue against Sherlock's full lower lip asking for entrance. Sherlock grants me entrance with a small moan coming from the back of his throat. Our tongues dance against each other playfully. It's not invasively chocking each other or messy with slobber. I've never understood why people French kissed that way. It's disgustingly disturbing and a huge turn off. But with Sherlock, he gently caresses my tongue with his and it turns me on completely. But we've never gone farther than just this. Intense snogging.

We break away and lean our foreheads against each other, peering into each other's eyes. Sherlock's hands still linger underneath my shirt.

"I love you, John Watson."

"And I love you. Now." I smile at him. "Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes."

"The game is on." He smiles back. "Get dressed, my doctor. We have a crime to solve. Oh, and wear that beige jumper. It's my favourite."

"Yes, sir." I respond flirty and march off to my room smiling.

I pull out the beige jumper Sherlock was referring to and a pair of tight dark blue jeans and get dressed. I grab my newly acquired sunglasses on the dresser and make my way to the loo. I fix my hair with a bit of product and have a quick wash.

I walk out to see Sherlock already in his trademark coat and scarf donning a pair of fashionable and very expensive looking sunglasses on top of his head and holding my coat.

"What's this?" I ask with a small smile, pointing to the glasses.

Sherlock blushes slightly and looks down at his shoes, then back up at me.

"Well. I thought since you have to wear sunglasses now, I would too. Doesn't hurt to protect one's eyes from the sun." He shrugs, still blushing a little.

"Thank you, love. That's a good idea and they suit you quite nicely." I smile giving him a small kiss on his cheek. He smile back and holds up my coat and I shrug into it, thinking.

I know he doesn't care about protecting his eyes. He's wearing them so I won't have to wear them alone. It's the first change I've had to make in order to shield myself from pain and I didn't like it. I know millions of people wear sunglasses around the world, but to me it felt like I was giving into my diagnosis, instead of fighting against it. But Sherlock reminded me that it's easier to fight when you're not weakened from pain and I knew he was right.

But the amount of consideration he had taken in the simple act of wearing sunglasses has let me realise, not for the first time, that Sherlock is one of the most compassionate and loving person I have ever met. Even though he seems hard and callous on the outside and he is that way to most people. He is the only person I have ever seen exhibit unconditional love and I feel honoured that I am the one he shows that unconditional love to. I want to show the world the love that Sherlock and I have for each other, but we haven't told anyone about us yet. Not even Mrs Hudson.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asks warily.

"Huh. Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just thinking."

He pauses. "What about?"

"Us together and if we should tell people about us."

"Oh." He says, seeming genuinely surprised. "I don't mind telling people. Honestly, I'm pretty sure we would just be confirming their suspicions."

"You're probably right." I chuckle.

"Let's tell our close friends first. Then after that we can start doing couple stuff."

"Couple stuff?"

"Yeah, like dates and stuff." He responds with a shrug looking a tad embarrassed.

"I'd like that." I smile and he smiles back. "Now let's go solve a crime."

"Way ahead of you." He says grabbing my hand and leading me out of the flat still talking quickly. "I phoned Lestrade whilst you were getting ready and he gave me some more details on the case. We already know that it involves the murder of three young women between the ages of 18-20. All have short blonde hair and blue eyes. Average height and severely underweight. All have been admitted to a clinic for anorexia within the past three months." We reach the front door and he stops talking to bend down and get me a small kiss on the lips. He pulls away and smiles, then brings my hand up to his lips, kissing it as well. He drops my hand and puts my sunglasses on for me, making me smile. He flips down his own and they make him look sexy as hell and steps outside, holding the door open for me as he continues talking.

"They all went to different clinics and lived in different cities. There is no connection to them other than their appearance and eating disorder. Molly hasn't been able to find any physical harm that could have contributed to their death other than the self-harm they've dealt to themselves, but none of its extensive enough to kill them."

"That's horrible." I respond, sadly as Sherlock raises his hand to hail a cab. "Those girls all have such deep seeded problems. Could it possibly be suicide?"

"It's possible, but I don't think it is. Molly would have been able to find something by now in the autopsy that would indicate that. Lestrade also believes it to be a triple homicide and I think his hunch is correct. The difficult part is that if it is indeed a triple homicide, the murderer has left no traces on any of the bodies and therefore difficult to catch." He continues following close behind me as we step into the cab.

"Bart's Hospital." He tells the cabbie and we take off into traffic as he places his hands in the prayer positions against his lips.

"You'll solve it, Sherlock. You always do."

His mouth quirks up slightly at the side and he drops one of his hands discreetly to give my hand a soft squeeze in thanks. I squeeze back and let him replace his hand back into its prayer position.

We drive to Bart's Hospital in content silence and I can't help but smile to myself. This is the most normal thing we've done since my diagnosis and I couldn't be happier to be back in the swing of things. We had been cooped up in the flat for the last three weeks and even though our newfound relationship has brought a lot of interesting and unexplored territories for us, we both, as Sherlock puts it, couldn't wait to experience the thrill of the chase and feel the blood pumping through our veins. We've both missed it.

Maybe my diagnosis isn't the end. Perhaps it can be the beginning of something new.

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7: His Fate Lies in the Balance

**Sherlock**

I can feel myself tremor with the excitement of a new case. Three bloody long weeks cooped up in the flat without a case was dreadful. It's not that no one had any cases. Definitely not that. Loads of cases were offered to me from Lestrade and various clients, but I turned them all down without even taking a glance at them. I couldn't bring myself to take a case and have my ailing blogger exhausting himself trying to keep up with me.

Speaking of John, he has been doing better, but I still worry about him immensely. His wellbeing consumes my every thought. There is not a moment that passes that I don't thinking about him. I constantly watch him at the corner of my eye. I follow him, unbeknownst to him, when he leaves the flat. After he's gone to bed, I sneak into his room, sit on the floor, and watch him sleep. I've dozed off a couple times whilst there, but I always wake early enough so John doesn't see me there. I don't think he'd like it anyways. Of course we are officially together now but, nothing has changes except the occasional cuddling, stolen kisses, and lingering touches. We still sleep in separate beds, but I'd feel much better if John slept by my side.

I am not familiar with the concept of relationships. I know the scientific structure it stands on, but it's difficult for me to provide the physical demands that come with a relationship. I know I love John with my entire being, but I'm afraid that I may not be able to provide John with everything he expects in a relationship. I'm afraid that I'll disappoint him. I have been saving files to my Mind Palace from various romance novels and films on how people act around each other when in a committed relationship. I have been using said information with John and it seems to be working, but I still feel that it won't be enough for him. That it won't be enough for me. I want everything to be perfect for him, even though every day I feel like I am dying all over again. Every kiss, every touch always feels like it can be our last and one day it will be.

I glance at my John who is looking out the window with a small smile playing on his lips and his dapper sunglasses on. I've got to admit he looks good with them on. John senses me staring and looks at me as a full smile spreads across his face.

"What?" He asks, still smiling.

"You look happy."

"Of course I am. You've finally taken a case, we're out of the flat, I feel fantastic, and I have you. What is there to not be happy about?" He smiles at me goofily.

_You're dying._

"I can't think of a thing." I smile back.

The rest of our journey falls in silence and we pull up to the entrance of Saint Bart's shortly thereafter.

I hold open the door leading into the morgue for John without thinking about it and give him a small kiss on the lips once inside.

I take off my sunglasses and John does the same. He squints and blinks against the bright fluorescent lights. I can see his eyes water and I place my hand on his shoulder as he pinches the bridge of his nose. With a sigh he puts them back on.

"All the bloody white in here makes the room seem brighter than it is." He says turning to me.

"It's due to the light reflecting off the surfaces." I say glancing around the room, taking in all the white.

"No shit, Sherlock." John jokes elbowing me softly in the side. I chuckle and flip my coat collar up.

"Oh, please, can we not do this this time." John says smirking.

"Do what?" I ask genuinely confused.

"You being all mysterious with your... cheekbones, and turning up your coat collar up so you look cool."

"I don't do that."

"Yeah, you do."

"Do not."

"Yes. You do." He says huskily tuning towards me, spreading his hand across my chest and looking up at me. "And it is one of the most sexiest thing you do."** (AN: I swear I have no sodding idea where this came from.)**

My eyes widen and my jaw visibly drops as I take in John's suddenly ravenous demeanour. His pupils are huge, shadowing almost the entire blue of John's eyes. I move my hands gently to John's wrist that's not on my chest, taking his pulse. It beats hard and fast.

"You turn me on so bad." John continues gruffly, leaning in to nibble around my jaw. I bit my lip to keep myself from moaning out loud, but a small one still manages to escape me.

John chuckles seductively. "You like that, don't you." He mumbles against my skin as he makes his way down my neck.

My heart slams against my chest as panic begins to drown me.

_I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do! Is this what John really wants? Is this what I really want? Oh, of course it is, Sherlock! Don't be daft! Of course you want John! He's your everything._

_But is this truly what John wants? What if it is? Would I be able to please him? What if I'm not able to and I just disappoint him? I haven't done this for a long time! I haven't had sex with another man since I was in my early twenties and that was purely for experimental purposes. I've never made love before. I don't know how..._

"John." I whisper huskily around the sex filled haze that's clouded my mind. "John, love? Stop."

"Mmm." John mumbles against my neck causing me to involuntarily shudder, but he does _not_ stop.

I inhale deeply ignoring the growing pressure in my trousers and try to get my mind to stop thinking naughty thoughts.

"Love?" I try again, pushing him back slightly. He takes a half step back and looks up at me with a flushed face and pleading eyes. "Listen to me. We've got work to do. If this." I say gesturing between us. "Is what you truly want, we will. But not here. Not in the morgue... Although it does have it's advantages..." I mumble the last bit to myself before turning my attention back to John's when he slaps me across the arm trying to stifle a laugh. "Sorry." I say sheepishly as I take John's face within my hands and become very serious. "I love you so much, John Watson. Is this... me... what you truly want?"

"Yes." He says simply and I rub my lips gently against his as a brilliant plan begins to formulate in my mind. I break my lips from John's and smile down at him.

"Okay?" I ask.

"Okay." John responds, smiling.

John removes his hand from my chest and in that instant, he switches like a light. He went from flushed and aroused to calm and collected in an instant. If I would have blinked, I would have missed the change in his demeanour, but I did see it and I shrug off the disconcerting feeling it gives me when John gives me a comforting smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

I put the odd feeling behind me as I walk down the hall, letting my coat billow behind me. I speed up slightly, leaving John behind and walk into the morgue looking for the light switch.

"Hi, Sherlock!" Molly greets happily as I switch off half the lights in the room. Her face drops in confusion.

"Why did you do that?" She asks.

I turn to Molly with a pained expression on my face.

"John's not well. I can't tell you everything now, but I... we... will eventually. Don't say anything to him." I say at lightning quick speed. Molly simply nods just as John walks in, taking off his glasses and glancing briefly at me with such warmth in his eyes.

"Hello, John." Molly smiles, glancing between John and I with a slight smile playing on her lips that I try not to smile at, because I know she has her suspicions and that she's right about them. She just doesn't know it yet, but she will soon.

"Hello, Molly. How are you?"

"Oh, fantastic. There has been so many cadavers this week!" She responds enthusiastically. "Oh! No! I- I didn't mean it like that! It's sad that they died and everything, but they give me work and-"

"Molly." I say cutting her off. "Please stop talking."

"Right. Sorry." She says, embarrassed.

"It's alright, Molly. I knew what you meant." John says, kindly. He's always so great with people. The kind buffer between me and the world.

"Alright, Molly. Show me the bodies." I say clapping my hands together enthusaistically.

She nod and departs, returning shortly with one of the bodies. Probably the first victim and lifts the sheet revealing a young woman beautiful even in death.

"This is the first one brought in. She's nineteen, lived in Cardiff, but went to a clinic here in London-"

"Tell us what we don't already know." I cut her off again. My patience is running thin.

"Right. Sorry."

"Stop apologising."

"Sor-Never mind." She says and looks down at the body. "Her eating disorder wasn't the cause of death as some suspected. Same goes for the two other girls. They were all on their way to recovery when they died and the self-inflicted cuts that all the victims have were not deep enough to cause death. The tox screen was also inconclusive for all of them."

"Definitely a seven." I mumble to myself as John covers a laugh with a cough. It reminds me of our first case together.

_We can't giggle at a crime scene!_

I smile to myself at the memory and pull on a pair of gloves. I start to examine the body with the magnify glass I keep in my coat pocket. At the corner of my eye, I see John sit heavily in one of Molly's chairs and I begin to deduce him.

_Slight bags under his eyes. Keeps pinching the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion. His medicine causes drowsiness._

I look up to see Molly watching me watching John. Her brows furrow in worry and confusion as she cocks her head minutely to the side. I shake my head slightly at her and she sighs quietly going back to her clipboard as I begin my examination of the body.

_An unknown time later._

"I've got it!" I shout stepping out of my mind palace. It was the psychiatrist that all the girls shared. They would go in for the weekly meeting with him and he would hypnotise them and inject a slow acting poison under their middle fingernail. It was really quite simple once you looked at all the evidence. The chemical was shown in the tox screen of all three girls in such a low amount it was overlooked. We just need Lestrade and his team to get a warrant and search his office, where they will surely find the evidence. "They all went to the same psychiatrist, he-" I say turning around only to realise that I'm alone. **(AN: Forgive this crappy case. I'm horrible at writing cases.)**

_Where the hell is Molly and John?_

I grab my mobile and call John, it rings five times before rolling to his voicemail. I call again and get his voicemail. My heart starts to pound loudly in my ears as I call Molly's mobile. She picks up after two rings.

"Sher-Sherlock."She stutters. It sounds like she's been crying.

"Molly! Where are you? Where's John? Is he alright?"

"Oh, Sherlock." She sobs. "He-He's not alright. We went to go get coffee. He said his head was hurting. But I-I didn't think anything of it. Th-Then his nose started to bleed all of a sudden and he just collapsed." She continues, sobbing more.

I listen to her words and feel my whole world start to turn. I feel sick and painfully lightheaded that I'm afraid I might pass out. My ears are buzzing making everything sound drowned out.

"I was about to come ge-get you when you c-called. They t-took him to the ICU on the third floor." She continues through her hiccups. "Pl-Please, Sherlock. He's asking for you. He wo-won't let them take him for evaluations without se-seeing you. P-Please." She begs crying even harder.

"I'm on my way." I say, trying to sound strong, but I fail as my words crack at the end.

"He's in room 313. Hurry."

I hang up the phone and begin to run as fast as I can. I burst into the stairwell and start taking the steps three at a time. My vision blurs as tears begin to form, but I push them down. I can't be weak right now. I need to be strong for John.

I reach the third floor landing out of breathe, my legs protesting as I push myself to run to John's room. I see Molly in the distance standing outside of his room crying so hard her shoulder's shake and small whimpers escape her lips. She hears my approach and with a sob runs to me. She throws herself into my arms with another heart wrenching sob and I gladly return her embrace. She has made me feel grounded instead of like a balloon threatening to float away.

Our embrace is brief and she pulls away, leading me to John's room.

"He-He didn't know who I was when he woke. He called me Harry, Sherlock." She says, looking at me whilst we fast walk with tears in her eyes. "Isn't that his sister?"

I pinch my lips into a pained straight line and swallow hard. I tell myself over and over again not to cry, not in front of John as I nod sadly to Molly. Silent tears fall down her face in buckets as we reach the window that peers into John's room. I stop in front of it and my heart sinks.

John's lying on the bed paler then I've ever seen him. He's curled up in the fetal position clutching his head with his eyes shut tight. His body is rigid and shaking as a small trickle of blood escapes his nose. A nurse walks in, her back turned towards me and says something to him. He cringes and I can see his lips move as he says, 'Stop talking so loud.' She nods and probably starts talking quieter. I can see John mouth the word 'No' and then after a pause I see his lips say, 'I said I won't go without seeing Sherlock.' At that, I walk into his room.

"John." I whisper.

"Dad?" John whispers as he shrinks deeper into his bed. A tear falls down my face as my throat closes up on me as I take in the fearful tone in his voice. I swallow hard and wipe my tear away as I try not to weep in front of frail man that I love so much.

"No, my love." I say pained. "It's Sherlock."

"Sherlock." He croaks weakly in relief as the nurse leaves, giving me a pitiful smile. "Please shut the curtains. I want to see you and the light... It's killing my head."

I go over to the curtains and shut them just as the lights flick off in the room. I turn to see a red faced Molly with her hand leaving the switch. I nod my thanks and she departs, closing the door, leaving John and I alone in the dim room.

I walk over to John who is still clutching his head and rocking back and forth slightly with his eyes shut tight. I kneel in front of him so we are at eye level and place my hand on top of his very warm one. He removes one of his shaky hands from his head to grasp my hand and opens his eyes.

His eyes are bloodshot and tears are falling down his face. His skin has taken on a grey tinge and his body shakes violently as beads of sweat roll off his forehead.

"It's happening too quickly, Sherlock. It's growing. I know it is." He chokes around his sobs. I have never seen him so utterly devastated before. So completely broken. My strong army doctor now so weak.

"You don't know that for sure, love. You don't know." I respond quietly, trying to remain strong for him.

"I'm a bloody doctor. I know the signs!"

"I know you are." I say, sadly feeling my heart being physically ripped a part in my chest.

I know he's right. All the symptoms he's currently portraying are the final symptoms for someone who only has mere weeks to live, if that. If it continues to grow at this rate, we may only have days left with each other.

"Listen to me, my love." I say with false confidence as I feel my eyes begin to sting. "We all know the signs, but that doesn't mean anything. Okay? It doesn't mean a thing. We won't know for sure until we get that beautiful head of yours scanned." I say bending over to kiss the top of his head. John whimpers out a sob and clings to me painfully.

"I'm scared, Sherlock. I'm so, so scared." He sobs causing his shoulders to shake.

"Don't be." I say, placing one of my hands on his cheek, memorising what it feels like to touch his smooth skin because I know one day, maybe too soon, I will never be able to feel his soft skin again. "I will always be here for you. I will never leave your side. Not ever. I should have been with you when this happened. I'm so sorry. I should have been there for you." I finish in a whisper.

"It's not your fault. You can't be with my 24/7. You have to live some life of your own." He responds trying to comfort me. I feel like a complete helpless idiot. John is the one whose dying and in pain and _he_ is trying to comfort _me_. What kind of pathetic fool am I?

But like a truth serum has been injected into my veins, I can't stop the words from escaping my lips.

"What life is it if I don't have you by my side?" I reply almost inaudibly as a single tear betrays me and falls down my faces.

"You'll live a beautiful life solving crimes and being brilliant." He says wiping the tear from my face. I grab his hand as he pulls away and kiss the top of it softly.

"I don't want to live without you." I mumble around his hand that's still pressed softly against my lips.

"You have to. You're the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. London will fall without you."

I chuckle sadly as more tears pour down my face. The first tear acted as the release for my body to betray my every emotion and I begin to sob hard. John begins to cry more, because for the first time he's actually seeing how much his diagnosis is affecting me. The brilliant machine Sherlock Holmes now broken beyond repair.

I feel him pull my arm and I glance up to see him scooting over to make room for me to lie down with him. I join him on the bed and we face towards each other as we silently cry together. Nothing we can do can stop our tears from falling so we don't even try. We simply press our foreheads against one another's with our fingers intertwined between us and let our tears of sorrow and unconditional love mingle together.

A couple minutes pass and John begins to drift off to sleep. His eyes have turned heavy and his breathing becomes deep. His eyes slip shut and I watch him intently counting his every breathe as I begin to hum softly to him.

_I know John's giving up. He's giving up on this life. On himself. He's accepted his fate and has thrown in the towel. But I refuse to give up. I refuse to give into John's fate. I won't stop fighting and if that means I have to fight for the both of us, then so be it. Their is always a chance he can survive. Always. I will hold onto that hope until the day he stops breathing. I will never give up on him. Not ever. Because he's the man I love. The only person I have ever and will ever love and you never give up on the people you love. You keep fighting for them. Believing in them. Because that's what people do. They keep believing in each other, because sometimes that's all they have left. _

As I think about all of this, I begin to quietly sing the song I've been humming to my sleeping John.

'Lights will guide you home  
And ignite your bones  
And I will try to fix you'

"I'll try to fix you, John. I promise." I whisper kissing his nose lightly just as John begins to shake violently.

"John?" I ask concerned.

I don't understand what's happening. My first thought is a nightmare, which John has often. But when John's eyes slid open and I see his eyes roll back into his head I know that it's not a nightmare. He's having a seizure.

I sit up quickly shouting John's name as I place my hands firmly on both sides of his shoulder pushing down to keep him from hurting himself.

John's body jerks and convulses so hard that his head begins to snap harshly from the immense amount force his body is exhibiting.

I can feel myself sob harder than I ever have at the sight before me. Gross, inhuman noises escape my lips as my tears just keep on falling and falling down my face and onto John's convulsing body. I'm hardly aware that I'm screaming his name until I feel strong hands try to pull me off of him. I fight them not wanting to be torn away from my love. He needs me right now. John needs me and no one can stop me from helping him.

Another set of hands accompany the first sets gripping around my waist and shoulders and I feel myself being pulled backwards. I grasp onto John's bed screaming at who ever it is to let me go. They successfully pull me off and I fall to the ground hard. I try to get back up to go to John when I hear _his_ voice and I just stop like somebody turned me off and I just sit on the floor not hearing anything anymore as I watch the nurses and doctor restrain my still convulsing John.

In the distance, I hear someone calling my name and the presence of concerned individuals around me, but I don't care. I can't feel, I can't think, I can't hear anything. All I can do is watch John being restrained to his bed as the doctor's force a tube down his throat and begin to wheel him out of the room.

I try to get up and follow, but somebody holds me back and I watch completely numb as my blogger is taken away from me. His fate now lies in the balance, teetering on the edge of life and death and all I want is for John not to leave me.

"Sherlock, John's not going to leave you." I hear the voice say again. I didn't realise I've been saying that out loud.

I break out of my trance red faced and teary eyed as I look to see whose around me and my heart sinks.

Mycroft is kneeling next to me with his hand on my shoulder and a fresh bruise forming on his cheek. Molly and Mrs Hudson stand in the distance sobbing into each other's arms. I look drearily over to my other side and see a bloody nosed Lestrade looking at me in concern.

"I'm so sorry, brother dear." Mycroft says softly.

I simply nod unable to speak as the minutes tick on in silence.

"Can someone please tell us what's going on?" Mrs Hudson says through her tears first to break the silence as Leatrade and Molly both nod wanting to know as well.

My shoulders slump as I place my face into my hands and let me tears continue to fall in buckets down my face.

"Would you like me to tell them, brother?" Mycroft asks tenderly.

I shake my head in my hands before lifting my head to look at them all properly.

I peer into all of their eyes, lingering for just a moment longer as they expectantly wait for me to explain. I'm sure they already have an idea about what's going on after the scene that they just witnessed, but they still deserve to know the extent of it all.

"John's dying." I whisper and I hear the room become silent so I take that as my queue to continue. "He has a tumour in his cerebrum. It's inoperable. Incurable." I continue voided of all emotions as I continue to cry silently. "He was given a year to live three weeks ago and n-now" I say gesturing to John's vacant bed. "He may not even have tomorrow."

"I'm so sorry mate." Lestrade says whilst clasping a consoling hand on my shoulder.

"We finally told each other how we feel." I continue my emotions seeping into my words. "We finally told each other how much we love one another and he's being taken away from me."

"You mean you and John?" Lestrade asks seemingly speaking for the whole group. I can see Mycroft smile sadly at the corner of my eye.

"Yeah." I choke out smiling sadly. "It was a week after his diagnosis. I kissed him. He didn't kiss me back at first and I thought I made a mistake. But then he grabbed my head and brought me back to him." I continue more speaking to myself now. "I've never been so happy. I love him." I say looking up to see Lestrade with unshed tears in his eyes and Mrs Hudson and Molly almost encompasitated in sorrow. Mycroft is the only one in the room to remain seemingly unmoved, but looking deeper I can see the pain in his eyes.

"You deserve each other." Molly says quietly, finally strong enough to speak. "I've never seen two people so perfect for each other."

"She's right, dear." Mrs Hudson says. "I knew you two always had a thing for each other. It took you guys long enough to figure it out."

"Maybe too long." I respond.

"You don't know that for sure, mate. This may just be a coincidence." Lestrade adds.

"The universe is rarely so lazy." I say bitterly.

"It isn't." Mycroft agrees. "But it doesn't have to be the end." I turn to him confused as he continues. "Their is an experimental drug used in America for cases like John's. It's only been found to be effective in 20% of its patients, but it may work for John."

My heart had begun to pound in my ears as a new ray of hope shines through the black clouds that have surrounded me since that fateful day.

"I have been working on getting it out here for John. The final paperwork went through last week and the shipment arrived yesterday. In the 20% of patients that it was effective on, they showed a reduction in the growth of their tumour." He begins tentevily then pauses, picking his words.

"Go on." I usher hopefully. He smiles at me sadly and continues slowly.

"2% of the people who reacted well to the medication, their tumours completely stopped growing."

"John has a chance?" I ask wide eyes and borderline giddy with hope.

"Yes, brother dear. However, please don't become too hopeful. I've told you the odds and they are against him, but he does have a chance. The drug is in it's infancy we do not know the prolonged effects of it."

I nod my understanding enthusiastically. "Did you make sure that the supply is the actual drug and not placebos?" I ask seriously.

"Of course." Mycroft smiles. "I had my own personal chemist examine the batch himself prior to the shipment. He assures me that the drug is the actual drug. I have already spoke to John's doctor and he has agreed. All we need is for John to agree."

I smile to myself and feel my heart become physically lighter in my chest. John has a chance. A proper chance even if the odds are against him, but at least he still has odds. It's better then no odds at all.

"Thank you, Mycroft." I say, sincerely as I approach him and give him a rare hug. Mycroft freezes, clearly surprised by my sentiment, but relaxes slightly and hugs back awkwardly and we let go.

"This is great news." Lestrade says happily.

"It really is." Molly says still crying a bit.

"Do you think John will agree?" Mrs Hudson asks.

We all ponder her question for a moment, none of us really sure if John will agree, but then why wouldn't he?

Just as I'm about to voice my opinion on the matter, the door to John's room opens. I feel my world freeze and my feet become rooted to the ground. The room becomes eerily quiet once more as an overworked, exhausted doctor steps into the room clipboard in hand.

"Are you the family of John Watson?" She asks kindly.

"We're the closest family he's got." Lestrade say first and I silently thank him for speaking because I honestly don't think I can without losing it.

John may have a chance with the medicine, but not if he's... if he's... already gone...

"I can only speak to family. Is their anyone you can call?" She asks looking at Lestrade.

I swallow through the hard knot in my throat and step foreword.

"He's my boyfriend." I say quietly. Her eyes widen a bit in surprise, but she quickly recovers herself and gives me a kind look.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dr. Kahn." She says extending her hand. I take it robotically, shaking it.

"Sherlock Holmes." I say almost inaudibly, consumed with worry.

The doctor drops my hand and tucks a long drown curl behind her ear, meeting my eyes with a sad, steady gaze as she begins to speak softly.

"I'm sorry-"

To be continued...


End file.
